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MORNINGS.
they either begin with a start, far too early for comfort, drenched in sweat, echoes of past missions, kills, horrors, detheroc in his mind —
or they begin slow, quietly, eyes opening at that trained 5am, fully alert, fully awake no matter how much his body cries out for more rest, no matter what time he’d lay down prior, he wakes at the same time.
( this, of course, is not counting the noises that wakes him in the middle of the night. rustle of the leaves, branches brushing against the side of the door, thunder, rain, bumps, thuds, anything that’s just too loud, he wakes to it, alert, ready, daggers already in his hands — truly, there is no real rest as the spymaster. not when the world has proven to be cruel and unpredictable. )
every new day is a trial, a testament to his strength, his patience, his endurance. he’s carved a routine though, you must understand — stretch, exercise, shower, walk, eat — he is well cared for, his needs met. he lives well, a home five minutes away from the si:7, tucked away in old town and hidden from public view. room, office, running water, heat, plentiful food, clothes and blankets, he is not suffering as many others in stormwind are. he serves royalty, he is well, there is no need to loathe these mornings. he is cared for. he is well.
work begins the moment he’s conscious ( though work doesn’t really end when he goes to sleep, ) - the moment an agent spots him, reports are head, tally of the day, new intel to be discovered. unrest among the civilians, spymaster, one tells him on his morning walk around the city, discreet, agent convincingly posed as a mere traveling merchant. the war has taken much from them, as has the draft. the armistice brings them no peace, and they voice their concerns over the throne. quiet, and calm things are for now, but we are watching it closely.
he thinks then, of the stonemasons, and as if fated to, casts his gaze towards the white cobblestone walls, the signature brick of the stonemasons, and remembers their work, their rage, their injustice. i’ll report it to the king, shaw would reply, knowing that wrynn can do nothing on this, that history is always bound to repeat. he is well, he is cared for. stormwind, westfall, the alliance, they are not.
you’re distant today, renzik tells him as he enters the headquarters, bearing the missive and knowledge that he is to send agents to die today. organizations in the shadows, intel to be gathered and dark forces play out of the public’s view, and it was up to them to deal with it. his agents can handle it. they are cared for. they are trained. they are prepared. but it’s blood to be spilled, and though shaw himself has become desensitized, he knows that every pulse ended kills a small part of him as well, no matter how much time passes.
the sun is fully out now, chill of early morning air dissipating as the city swells to life, noise and activity, the busy-ness reminding him of what he stands to protect ( what he stands to lose ) and what stood to give his bloodline a chance ( what also claimed his mother in violence ). stormwind is his armor, his blood, his purpose. the throne ensures he is cared for, that he is well. he is to do the same, until death.
busy day, is all shaw can say. things are well, things are fine. cruel of him, to find discontent in this life, when he is still breathing, still walking, still fortunate enough to see through another day ( another war ). can he say the same for the others? for edwin, for tiffin, for varian, kearnen, charlene, pathonia? he endures. they do not. for every day he survives a mission, huddled in his hiding spot as bombs drop by, or patching a wound that could have struck a vein, or successfully evading sight and dispatching foes twice their size, or enduring the harsh climates of the environments he’s forced into, he is grateful to leave in one piece.
dear pathonia taught him how to, of course. where would he be without her? ( where would she be, without stormwind? )
but renzik knows him well. their bond was forged through blood and war, they’ve witnessed many of the same atrocities. they are well, they are intact, yes, physically, they are well, they are fine. renzik says nothing, simply hands him the latest scroll. reports from kalimdor. they’re to mobilize immediately.
the sun is at its highest point now, as shaw gathers his agents, armored and ready, standing at the harbor, awaiting their sloop o’ war. he’d rather stay in stormwind, watch the king closely, but wrynn’s orders are not to be disobeyed. his loyalty would never let him stray.
but still, he watches a kul tiran ship arrive and dock, and he wonders idly, if he’d ever succumb to such weakness to simply run away from it all, and never look back.
armored and armed, poisons ready, gadgets stocked, tools counted for — a spymaster’s work never ends. he does what he does well, and in turn, he is cared for. he is well.
these good mornings, spymaster, they’re for the alliance.